The Triple Threat Collection

by Lis Wiehl

  Without reading it, Wayne scribbled his name and handed the papers back. His eyes never left her face.

  “Do you have caller ID at home?”

  “I already looked,” Wayne said, following Nic’s train of thought. “No number on there that I didn’t recognize before she disappeared.”

  “Then why don’t we start,” she said, “with you telling me a little bit more about your daughter.”

  “We’ve been over this before.” Valerie sighed heavily. “More than once.”

  “I know, I know, Mrs. Converse, and I appreciate that, but sometimes a fresh pair of eyes and ears can pick up something that has previously been missed.”

  They painted a sweet, uncomplicated picture. Nic took notes, listening for what they didn’t say as well as what they did. At home, Katie was known as Katie-bird. She played the piano. She collected designer shoes and liked to draw. Her favorite movie was Legally Blonde, and her favorite color was purple. In February she would rejoin the rest of her junior class at Lincoln High.

  “She’s a sprinter on the track team,” Wayne said. “She’s small but fast. She wouldn’t have been taken easily. If she wasn’t immobilized, she would have fought or run.”

  “So what do you think happened?”

  Nic watched him carefully. It wasn’t impossible that Wayne actually knew what had happened because he had done it. Even killers could break down in tears, not believing what they had done, not believing they couldn’t undo it. And people were much more likely to be harmed by a family member than by a stranger.

  Wayne took a shuddering breath. “There must have been more than one of them. Maybe they had a van. And probably a gun.”

  “What about her dog?” Nic asked. “Wouldn’t he have bitten anyone who tried to attack her?”

  “Jalapeño?” Valerie snapped. “That dog is stupid. He’d be as likely to lick a kidnapper’s face as bite him.”

  The local cops had put out a bulletin to the pound and all the shelters within a twenty-mile radius, but so far, nothing. The dog was chipped, which made the search easier. It would be hell if the family had to keep driving from shelter to shelter, looking at dogs that weren’t theirs. Of course, it would be far worse to hear that a body had been found—only to learn that it wasn’t your sister, your daughter, your wife.

  “He’s really Whitney’s dog.” Wayne pushed himself off the couch and started pacing. “Now he’s gone, and Whitney has to endure not knowing where her sister or her dog is. I just hope they’re together. Then Katie wouldn’t be too lonely.”

  Nic turned a page in her notebook. “Can you walk me through what she did that day up until the time she left with the dog?”

  “You’re wasting time asking all this again,” Valerie snapped.

  Wayne shot her an anxious glance.

  “Precious minutes, precious hours. Why aren’t you out there finding the person who did it?” She covered her face with her hands.

  “Please,” Nic said. “It could be useful.”

  “She was still sleeping when I left,” Wayne said. For a second, he stopped pacing. A shudder ran through his body. “I didn’t even get to say good-bye to her. I never got to tell her I loved her one last time.”

  “Don’t say that,” Valerie ordered, uncovering her face. “We don’t know that.” She turned to Nic and took over the story. “Katie didn’t get up until after her sister went to school. I would have thought she would have been wide awake, given the three-hour time difference between Portland and New York, but she had the pillow over her head and she didn’t want to get up.”

  Nic remembered those days, when she was fifteen or sixteen and could have slept half the day and then not gone to bed until two in the morning. She had a feeling Valerie wouldn’t stand for either of those things.

  “She had Life cereal for breakfast and read the newspaper,” Valerie continued. “She’s not like most kids, who don’t read the paper at all, or only read the comics and the celebrity gossip. Katie is interested in national news, international news.” She pressed her lips together until they turned white. “Then she took a shower and got dressed. Around eleven, I left for my volunteer work—I run the clothes closet at a local outreach center. We help women getting off the street who don’t have a working wardrobe. We give them the clothes they need to look presentable again. When I got back around four, I found a note from Katie saying she had taken Jalapeño for a walk. I started calling her cell phone about a half hour later. It was already getting dark. But she never answered.”

  “What route does she normally take?” Nic was careful to use the present tense. She would never promise that Katie was alive, but she wouldn’t rest until the girl was found. What would it be like to lose Makayla? It was a thought she kept coming back to, like a tongue probing a sore tooth.

  Valerie tipped her head to one side, thinking. “She likes to window-shop. I’m guessing she went up Twenty-third and came back on Twenty-first.”

  It was the same good news–bad news answer Katie’s parents had earlier told the locals. The two streets were probably the busiest in Portland, with plenty of foot traffic. Cops had already walked the same route, done a neighborhood canvass, talked to every person along the way. Nada. But it wasn’t surprising. Would one girl, bundled up against the cold, walking a nondescript dog, have attracted any attention among hundreds of shoppers intent on finding the perfect Christmas gift?

  Wayne clenched his fists. “It’s like she went out that door and stepped into a black hole.”

  “Has Katie seemed any different since she came home?”

  “She’s seemed lost in thought. I’ll say something to her, and she won’t answer me until I ask it a second time.”

  Valerie nodded. “I think she’s depressed. She’s been sleeping a lot and only picking at her food. I thought maybe she was just missing school and her friends in DC. But when I tried to ask her about it, she said nothing was wrong.”

  “Have you looked to see if anything is missing?” Nic asked. “Her purse? Her keys? Any kind of backpack or bag?”

  Valerie massaged the space between her eyebrows. “Just the things you would think she would take. Her cell phone and her keys.”

  “This might seem insensitive, but we need honest answers to help us find her. Does Katie drink or use drugs that you know of?”

  Valerie stiffened. “That we know of! She’s not some latchkey child. We make it our business to know what Katie is doing and with whom. She doesn’t smoke, she doesn’t drink, and she most certainly does not use drugs. We’ve already discussed these things with the other policemen. Why are you wasting time asking the same questions over and over?”

  The woman was like an injured dog, biting anyone who tried to help.

  “Please, just bear with me. Does Katie have a boyfriend?”

  “No,” Wayne said. “Katie knows we don’t want her to date until she’s out of high school.”

  What the parents wanted and what the kids did could be two very different things.

  Watching Valerie pinch her lips together, Nic asked, “And who would you say her friends are?”

  Valerie said, “Her best friend is a girl named Lily, but I don’t know if they’ve been in touch since Katie came home. They’ve known each other since preschool, but Katie has kind of outgrown Lily, if you know what I mean.”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Oh, Lily’s turned into one of those Goth girls, all dressed in black. She wasn’t brought up that way, but she’s a bit of a rebel. Not like Katie. Katie has, has—goals.”

  “She’s so focused,” Wayne said, his voice cracking. “So focused and smart and funny. And now some sick creep has taken her.”

  “We don’t know that, Mr. Converse.” Nic had to say it, although her gut told her he was right.

  His eyes were haunted. “You may not know it, but I do.” His hands curled into fists. “If I could only get my hands on the guy who took my little girl!” With a roar, he pivoted and punched the wall
. A dimple appeared, and then the paint fell away, revealing plaster held in place by chicken wire. White dust swirled in the air. Wayne shook his hand as both women sprang to their feet.

  “That’s not going to help!” Valerie shouted.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” Nic asked.

  When Wayne mutely shook his head, she took his hand between her own. His skin was cold. She ran her finger across his knuckles, which were red and already starting to swell. Bruised, but not broken, if she was any judge. When something hot plopped onto her arm, she flinched and looked up. Wayne was crying, his mouth so wide that she could see the silver flash of fillings on his back teeth. His face was red and his whole body shook with sobs, but he was eerily silent. She let go of his hand.

  Finally, Valerie reached out for her husband and pulled him to her. As Wayne buried his face in her neck, Valerie stared at Nic over his shoulder. Her eyes were blank, unseeing.

  CONVERSE RESIDENCE

  December 16

  Five minutes later, Nicole followed Katie’s parents up the stairs. While Wayne held a bag of frozen peas across his bruised knuckles, Valerie pushed open the door at the end of the hall. Katie’s bedroom had pink curtains, apple-green walls, and a window seat.

  Nic said, “Sometimes I find it helps me to spend some time alone in a person’s room. It helps me absorb their spirit.”

  She sounded all New Agey, like Cassidy. The truth was that she just wanted the parents out of the room in case she found something—like pot or a vibrator—that would upset them.

  They both nodded, Valerie more slowly.

  Nic closed the door. First, she surveyed the room. Everything was so neat. The furniture was dusted, and the clothes were hung on evenly spaced hangers in the walk-in closet, instead of strewn on the floor the way Makayla’s always were. It was so clean that even the trash basket was empty.

  Where another girl might have had a poster of a popular band, Katie had a poster of Condoleezza Rice. The top of a chest of drawers held a framed photograph of herself—complete with braces—shaking hands with President Bush. There was also a mounted wooden gavel. Nic read the brass plate. To Katie Converse, for exemplary leadership in the State of Oregon Mock Legislature.

  She took a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and pulled them on. The chances that this was a crime scene, that someone had been in here with Katie and forced her to go with them—or simply enticed her—were small. But if they didn’t come up with something soon, she would bring in the fingerprint specialists to see if there was anything in the room that didn’t match up.

  Methodically, Nic began to search. She checked the pockets of Katie’s clothes. No Abercrombie & Fitch or American Eagle for this girl, but Nordstrom and Saks. Each pocket was flat and empty. The only surprise in the back of the closet was the hundred shoe boxes in wooden cubbies. The front of each box bore a stapled Polaroid of the contents, ranging from ballet flats to totteringly high heels.

  On the bookshelf were a half dozen teen novels—the kind that looked more serious than racy—and a book of poetry. From it, the green edge of a Post-it peeked out. Nic opened the book.

  The Sick Rose

  by William Blake

  O Rose, thou art sick.

  The invisible worm,

  That flies in the night

  In the howling storm:

  Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy:

  And his dark secret love

  Does thy life destroy.

  After reading the poem through twice, Nic closed the book and put it back. Was Katie as virginal as her parents imagined? Or was it Katie herself who had done the imagining?

  A search of the drawers yielded no rolling papers, phone numbers, diaries, loose pills, porn, or hidden cigarette packs. The only thing she noticed was that the panties on top of the underwear drawer were all silky thongs, while those underneath were cotton Jockey briefs. There was nothing taped underneath the drawers. Nic was pushing the last one back into place when she saw the slim white Macintosh laptop sitting under-neath a pile of folders on the desk.

  Her heart started to race. In today’s world, a computer held everything. E-mail, IM log, journal, calendar, shopping lists, even last time on the computer. With the latter, they might be able to nail down the last time Katie was in the house.

  Nic pulled out her cell phone and called the computer forensics lab.

  “Hey, Katie Converse had a laptop. I’m bringing it in.”

  At the lab, the techs would be able to bring up all the laptop’s past history, even if it had been erased. Everything that came across the machine was cached in little nooks and crannies that the average user knew nothing about. With the right tools, any secrets could come spilling out. There could be a clue in an e-mail—an invitation to meet or even a threat.

  The computer was already on, so she opened it up. On the Internet browser she looked to see the last place Katie had visited. It was myspace.com/theDCpage. Nic clicked. And there she was. Katie. A photo of her striking a pose wearing a fedora, more sexy than disguise. But was that sadness Nic saw in Katie’s eyes? From the angle, she guessed Katie had taken the photo herself with her cell phone.

  On the left of the page were lists of the books and movies and music the girl liked. On the right, blog entries and a series of comments from friends. Music began to play, a song Nic vaguely recognized as having been very popular over the summer. Now, so close to the shortest day of the year, it seemed like it had never been summer and never would be again.

  Alive on the screen. Nic just hoped Katie was alive in real life. She clicked on one of the blog entries at random. It was labeled simply “Rules.”

  MYSPACE.COM/THEDCPAGE

  Rules

  September 7

  I’m exhausted. And hot! My clothes stick to my skin. I never understood what humidity really meant. They might as well just say “sauna.”

  This morning I made myself drink three cups of coffee. It tasted burnt. But I figured I needed it, b/c it was five thirty in the morning! I haven’t gotten up that early since I believed in Santa Claus. A couple of guys at my table were really cute (I’m not naming names, just in case).

  After breakfast the Senate Page Director explained the program to the thirty of us. There are lots of little rules like not breaking curfew, getting good grades & keeping your room clean. Anytime we’re someplace not patrolled by the Capitol police, we have to be with another page or an adult, even if it’s just to go to the Starbucks across the street.

  If we break any of the big rules, we can be kicked out without warning. Like last year I guess this guy was caught stealing. That same day, he was put in a car & driven directly to the airport. Can you imagine how humiliating that would be?! The director said that everything that happens in Washington gets in the paper, so if we screw up, we jeopardize the entire page program.

  He also said they monitored our Internet when we’re on the government’s computers, although he didn’t say exactly how much they could see. He did say if you go to a porn site & are there for more than a few seconds, they’ll know. He didn’t say anything about MySpace on my personal computer, though & I didn’t ask, so this is legal—right? ;)

  As he was talking, I looked around the room. We look like the pod people. All of us in navy blue pantsuits, white long-sleeved shirts, dark socks & black lace-up shoes. (Do you know how hard it is to find women’s black lace-up shoes? Which, by the way, are the ugliest shoes I have ever seen. I finally had to mail-order them & they didn’t show up until two days before I left for DC.) The only difference between the girls & the guys is that the guys have to wear ties.

  At lunch, a lot of the other pages grumbled about all the rules.

  Me? No matter how many rules there are, it’s better than being home. V is always yelling at me. Not at my sister, of course, b/c she’s perfect.

  The last thing we learned was how to put on a gas mask. Mine smelled funny inside. Even though they said you could breathe with it on just fine, I couldn’t. I fe
lt like I was smothering. There just wasn’t any air.

  I finally had to tear it off.

  PIERCE RESIDENCE

  December 17

  Allison sat in the kitchen nook, drinking the one real cup of coffee she had decided to allow herself per day. With real sugar, since she had sworn off the artificial stuff. Around her, the rest of the house was in darkness. Sleet lashed the black rectangles of the windows.

  Floyd the cat sprawled on her lap, deliriously kneading her thigh with his sharp claws. His pupils were so wide there was only a fine rim of yellow around them. He had been in a whiny, obnoxious mood since she had gotten up. The only way to quiet him was to hold him. Not wanting to wake Marshall, she had pulled the cat onto her lap. Fine preparation for parenthood, Allison thought, stroking Floyd with more annoyance than affection.

  Ever since she had learned that she was pregnant, she had been filled with uncertainty about becoming a mother, but it was too late to step off now. One minute she couldn’t believe it was really happening, the next minute she was worried that it was all too much.

  She had pushed aside Marshall’s latest comps for a shoe ad to make room for her coffee cup and her Bible. Allison turned the pages until she found the verse she was looking for in Philippians. “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. ”

  Still keeping one hand on Floyd, Allison raised the other one and began to pray in a soft murmur. Her arm was stretched high overhead, her hand pressing up as if it carried a weight. It was the physical expression of the emotional and spiritual load she had felt since she saw the two crossed lines on the pregnancy test.

  “Oh, God, I offer you up the burden I’m carrying, the burden of this pregnancy. I thought when it finally happened I would feel so happy, and I do, but I’m also scared. I know I need to be taking care of myself, and get more sleep, but I can’t stop thinking about this girl Katie. She looks so much like Lindsay at that age.”